“I have learned that if you must leave a place that you have lived in and loved and where all your yesteryears are buried deep, leave it any way except a slow way, leave it the fastest way you can."   


-Beryl Markham


I have to admit that without firmly in our minds visions of the new place to which we will be heading, the thought (or reality, if you will) of leaving our condo has become downright depressing. No matter how tired we have grown of the dingy carpet, the faulty windows, the limited storage space, when our only other prospect is a big, blank, unfamiliar and uninviting unknown, the dingy carpets, faulty windows and limited storage space don't really look all that bad. Yet, we do know it is time to move on. Underneath the memories and emotions (and fear of homelessness) that truth really is unavoidable. And as with most things in my life I feel prolonging the agony is bound to only make things worse. A "just rip off the bandage and be done with it" mentality in other words. Does that apply to moving? I think so. (Or at least I am finding out.) That is why, much to the amusement of my husband, a full 24 hours into accepting the offer on our condo I started taking things off the walls and packing up the seldom used contents of our laundry room and closets. This place is no longer our home. So it needed to stop looking like it. End of story. 

Right? 

Except now, as we wait in limbo, feeling not at home in our condo and not at home anywhere else either I must admit I don't care much for the "unsettledness" of it all. As is typical of most girls I've spent my whole life making homes. Under blanket canopies and under bushes, in our garage attic and my grandparent's basement, in my expanding range of dollhouses. Even the two apartments we lived in before our condo, as much as was possible I made those into homes. Our condo has been home for 5 years. The longest we've lived anywhere. It's where we brought our daughter after we left the hospital. It's where my husband recovered from his broken hip. It's where we retreat to after the events of every day, whether they be good or bad or just plain exhausting. It is our haven. (Or perhaps I had best get used to writing in the past tense...it WAS our haven.) And maintaining it's order and warmth and comfort have been not only my calling but my pleasure. Now all that is coming to an end. 

I know, I know. We will find a house. It's onto bigger and better things! I should be excited!! I will soon have a whole new house to transform into a home. But until then...well, I can't help wondering, to a certain extent, who am I without a home? Am I the same person? How much of myself is tied to this place we are leaving?

What about you?